


Mental Health Day

by sunken_standard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 10:43:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10920210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: After coming back to London and getting back to work, Sherlock decides he needs to take a mental health day.  Set post-TEH.





	Mental Health Day

**Author's Note:**

> Used as my fill for the Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017, Day 4: First Sleepover/ Sleep Together. I cheated, though, since I already had this 9/10 finished when I decided to use it; the prompt conveniently gave me an ending. (I like it as a stand-alone and it's bigger than a ficlet, so it's getting its own post.)
> 
> Beta-read by madder_badder (<3), not Britpicked.

*

 

"Sherlock? Why are you, ah... here? And dressed like, um—" her face did a thing, confused and groping for a tactful way to put whatever she wanted to say "— _that_?"

 

He was just as startled as she was; he'd planned on leaving before she got home from work. It was probably a bit not good that he'd let himself in with the key she'd given him to use in the time after he'd died but before he'd left London. He couldn't be sure if the offer of sanctuary had been open-ended to begin with, and now that there was the boyfriend ( _fiancé_ ) in the picture... Well.

 

"Too many reporters, too many gawkers pretending to be clients. I have two years of crap telly and tabloids to catch up on and my flat was too noisy." It was mostly true, if a facetious presentation of his reasons. "Didn't want to ruin any of my other clothes climbing out the window, and it's not as though I could waltz out the front door wearing that stupid hat. Incidentally, I may have bled a bit on your bath mat."

 

"Where is it and how bad?" she asked, concern clear in her voice, though not nearly as dire as the last time he'd heard that tone.

 

She offloaded her handbag onto the entryway table and shook off her coat. He set the laptop aside and stood, pulling up his t-shirt and hoodie.

 

She hissed through her teeth as she rounded the coffee table. "How far did you fall?"

 

He wondered, briefly, how bad the bruising was. The others had almost faded to nothing. "Two, two and a half metres, maybe? I got caught on the drai—"

 

"Drainpipe on the building next door," she finished, prodding the area above the laceration. He'd forgotten just how good she was at reconstructing the circumstances of an injury. "Your last tetanus jab was before you left?"

 

"Mm," he confirmed.

 

"I want to get a better look at this," she said, stepping back. She started toward the stairs, assuming he'd follow.

 

"Why are you home so early?" he asked, trailing after her. It sounded like more of an accusation than he intended.

 

"On-call this week. I had to go in at three-thirty this morning because they were bringing someone in and they needed me to dig out a bullet for analysis."

 

"Oh? What was it?" Something interesting, he hoped.

 

"Not sure, to be honest. Seven-six-two, if I had to guess. Ballistic tip, fragments everywhere. It took me two hours and four x-rays to get them all."

 

Ooh, NATO rounds. Sniper. "Headshot?"

 

"Entry wound was right here," she tapped a spot behind her ear.

 

"Who's the lead?" Organized crime hit, most likely. It was no poisoning, but could be interesting.

 

"Greg. But they think they know who it is. They already had the victim under surveillance, he was a witness in some drugs thing, I think? I wasn't paying a lot of attention." She went about setting the necessary supplies on the side of the sink; apparently she was going to clean and dress the wound properly.

 

"Oh." So much for that, then. He wasn't up to speed on who the major players were, anyway; it may have changed in the last two years.

 

She ducked into her bedroom and he heard her rummage in the drawer of her bedside table before she returned with a torch. He took off his hoodie while she washed her hands and struggled on a pair of gloves; she never dried her hands properly before putting on gloves and it never failed to amuse him to watch her do it.

 

He was reminded of just how much he'd missed her while he was gone, even though they'd been in contact sporadically.

 

He peeled his t-shirt over his head and clutched it in front of himself, feeling more exposed than he'd like. He'd never had a problem with being unclothed in front of anyone, but Molly had a way of making him feel naked and he wasn't sure if that was good or bad. Bit of both, really.

 

"Oh my God," she said softly, seeing the yellow-green bruises and the scabbed over remnants of his time in Serbia. "Were you—"

 

"Caned. And rather savagely beaten, repeatedly. And yes, those are cigarette burns."

 

"Christ. Cracked ribs?"

 

"Just bruised." There wasn't really much else he could say. Or much he wanted to. He'd rather forget that it happened. He'd been able to control his responses and compartmentalize the pain, but he'd been near his breaking point. Not that he'd ever let Mycroft know that.

 

"Please tell me you got some medical attention."

 

He chanced a glance in the mirror to his right; Molly stood stock still behind him, her fists clenched at her sides and head bowed. Her jaw was set and her eyes closed; he couldn't say if she looked more sad or angry.

 

"Two days after the last of it."

 

She exhaled harshly, then picked up the flannel from next to the sink and ran it under the tap. She put aside whatever she was thinking in favour of tackling what needed doing; it was a trait he'd always admired in her. She was quite possibly the most level-headed person he knew.

 

She was gentler than one would expect from someone whose only patients were in no position to complain when she ran the flannel over the area around the wound, careful not to disturb the cut itself. She used a plastic syringe to irrigate, then exchanged it for the torch and clicked it on.

 

"This is probably going to hurt a bit," she said, apologetic. She probed and prodded at the edges of the skin that had only just begun to scab over.

 

He glanced at her in the mirror again. She put the torch in her mouth and used one hand to hold the edges of the cut apart and the other to remove something with tweezers. Not exactly sanitary; it hardly seemed like something she would do. Then again, how much did he actually know about her?

 

Past what he could read from the things around her, he actually knew very little. She didn't often volunteer information about herself, preferring to ask questions.

 

"Did you ever consider becoming a regular doctor?" he found himself asking. He had so many gaps to fill.

 

She took the torch out of her mouth. "Did you ever consider becoming a regular detective?"

 

He caught her eyes in the mirror and they shared a sardonic half-smile. He was hit once again with a deep sense of regret; he couldn't help but feel sad knowing he'd missed his chance years ago. Life had other plans, as it always did. Both of them were probably better off this way; she had the kind of man she needed and he could never be and his own attentions weren't divided. Friendship was more valuable than any pretty words or sweet kisses ever could be. Better to have not known love at all than to have loved and lost.

 

"I had a real job once, right out of school," he said. He didn't know why he was telling her. No one aside from his parents and brother really knew about it. Well, old colleagues, obviously, but they hardly mattered.

 

She made a noise around the torch, something between 'never would have expected that' and 'huh, interesting, do go on.'

 

"Developing polymers for an adhesives manufacturer. When I got tired of sniffing glue, I switched to cocaine." He grunted in pain as she dug the tweezers into the open wound. He was fairly certain it was deliberate.

 

He knew Mycroft had told her about his drug use. Christmas Eve, years ago. Didn't matter, it was firmly in the past. At least, the cocaine and the opiates. Other things were negotiable because they weren't nearly as good, so not nearly as dangerous.

 

"I hated it, so I quit, then I overdosed and ended up in rehab. Mycroft tried to recruit me to work for him, but I refused. I bounced around for a bit before I realized I could actually make a living solving other people's problems."

 

"My Mum's a GP and my Dad was an obstetrician. Pathology was my act of rebellion."

 

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Hardly a proper rebellion. Smoking or dyeing your hair or getting a tattoo is a rebellion. You were a swot," he said, keeping his tone normal. He was teasing, though, which was new. He might even be flirting; he wasn't sure, as he'd never done it before. At least, consciously. Or genuinely.

 

_Harmless_ , he told himself.

 

"I did dye my hair. I had red streaks in it like the girl from Republica. It was 1996."

 

"Pics or it didn't happen," he said lightly, enunciating.

 

She smirked. "You're the detective and you have a computer. I'm sure you can find them without my help."

 

He liked her like this. She seemed more relaxed, open, playful. He supposed she really and truly had moved on. The irony wasn't lost on him.

 

"You're lucky you hit something sharp. This could have been a lot worse," she said when the conversation lulled, exchanging the tweezers and torch for the plastic syringe.

 

"Mm," he agreed.

 

They lapsed into silence again as she finished patching him up; he was content to enjoy her gentle touch. It had been so long since anyone had touched him with that level of care. The last person to do so was her, in fact. Before that... well, probably childhood.

 

A wave of intense longing washed over him; it wasn't sexual or romantic in nature, but something even more primal, the base human need for touch, for connection, that of an infant needing to be soothed. He was disappointed when she finally finished and her hands were gone.

 

He started to put on his blood-stained shirt; Molly stopped him with an absent hand to his forearm.

 

"I can soak it in the sink so the blood doesn't set, then wash it for you. You can wear one of my shirts. I mean, if you want. I was planning on doing laundry anyway."

 

He covered all the weird emotions he was feeling with a look somewhere between sardonic and sceptical. "Molly, I wouldn't have been able to wear one of your shirts since I was twelve."

 

She gave him a flat look indicating she was not amused. "Free t-shirts only ever come in one size, and that size is not mine." She made the decision for him and took the shirt from his hands before he could protest.

 

She wanted him to stay, he realized. Even if she no longer had feelings for him, she still wanted his company. Which he knew, intellectually, since she'd spent the day with him not even a week before. The way they'd parted made him think they'd be seeing a lot less of each other now than they had in the past. Maybe not, though.

 

He followed her into her bedroom; not much had changed from two years ago. Surprisingly little evidence of the fiancé; they spent the bulk of their time together at his. He wondered why that was; Molly had a nice flat in a central location, no obnoxious neighbours (unless someone new had moved in nearby), comfortable furniture. Something to investigate, should he be so inclined. Which he currently was not.

 

She opened a drawer and took out a t-shirt, second from the top; pyjamas. He slipped the shirt over his head, thinking it strange that he was wearing something she slept in, something that graced her naked skin for a full third of a day at least two days a week, judging by the wear and its position in the drawer. It seemed almost too intimate. He'd worn Mycroft's clothes before out of necessity, and things he'd accumulated as disguises, but this was somehow different. He chose to ignore that line of thinking.

 

"So what crap telly are you catching up on?" she asked, already on her way back to the bathroom.

 

"Oh, you know, Corrie, Strictly, Towie..." he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and hooking his thumbs through his beltloops. He'd spent a lot of time in jeans over the last two years; it felt more natural to wear them than it did a suit, almost. There were so many things he felt like he had to re-learn.

 

He heard her laugh from the bathroom as she ran the tap; he smiled in return, even if she couldn't see it.

 

"I just got The Walking Dead Series Four on DVD, if you want to watch that. Or, if you're not in the mood for American zombies, I've got French zombies or gay teenage zombies."

 

He wandered closer as she spoke, coming to rest in the doorway to the bathroom. "I'm sensing a theme."

 

"You have just returned from the dead," she said, highly amused with herself.

 

_Some things never change_ , he thought, her terrible sense of humour making him warm inside.

 

He raised an eyebrow and she smiled in that kind of impish way she hadn't done very often before, but was common enough now. He rather liked it.

 

"I wouldn't think you'd go in for that sort of thing."

 

"Zombies?"

 

"Irony." He was flirting. He was sure of it. Maybe not so harmless. _Watch it_ , he warned himself.

 

She huffed a soft laugh and he had the thought that he could become addicted to it. "It's like you and the hat. I didn't start it, but it became a thing. And, I mean, it's really all about being alive anyway. The eternal struggle to survive in the face of our own mortality."

 

"I thought the brain-eating was a critique of the modern media and a commentary on consumerism," he said dryly.

 

She laughed again; his lips tingled with the urge to kiss her. He swallowed against the impulse. He really should leave, even if it meant facing everything that waited for him at Baker Street, and not just the reporters and looky-loos and clients.

 

"Do you want a sandwich? I know it's a little early for lunch, but I haven't had anything other than a biscuit since dinner last night," she asked, packing away the last of her medical supplies.

 

Was he hungry? Not starving; he'd had toast only two hours before. Still seemed a bit rude to turn down her offer and make her eat alone, especially if he was probably going to be hungry in an hour or so anyway. "If it's not any trouble. Thank you."

 

He followed her back downstairs to the kitchen and sat awkwardly at her breakfast bar while she pulled out ingredients and offered a million choices; she started talking about a few of the most interesting postmortems she'd done over the last two years. He was struck by the odd thought that he was reminded of being a child, watching Mummy or Mycroft make him lunch. He liked the thought of being taken care of, just the littlest bit.

 

While they ate, he told her about some of the nicer things he'd seen while he was away; sunrises in Tibet and the fields of sunflowers in Ukraine, the cathedral in Prague and the packed streets of New Delhi. He basked in her rapt attention; it was different than just showing off and being clever. She had a faraway look, picturing everything. He wished she could have been there for some of it, he wished he could have shared it with her. He wished, selfishly, she'd been there for his darkest and most hopeless moments as well, as they probably wouldn't have been so dark and hopeless if he'd had her to... if he'd had her. Which was something he didn't want to be thinking about when she was right in front of him.

 

"I'd like to travel more. I never seem to have the time, though. Tom and I were going to go to Greece two months ago, but we had to cancel because he had to go to California for work." She twisted her ring; maybe they weren't as happy as he'd thought.

 

Maybe there was hope yet.

 

"I went on one of those National Trust tours of the Cotswolds instead. It was interesting. And I didn't get a sunburn, so there was that," she said, forced cheerfulness; defensive. Feeling the need to prove that she sat around pining for no man.

 

If he thought she had a single mean bone in her body, he'd assume she was being cruel, throwing it in his face. But, knowing her, she was simply trying to reassert her independence, her agency. She wanted his respect; she'd always had it, but he'd done a poor job of showing it. That would change, going forward.

 

"My parents live in the Cotswolds. It's nice. Boring—though I suppose that's rather what they like about it—but nice," he offered.

 

His parents were another thing he never talked about with anyone. He didn't have that kind of relationship with John or Mrs. Hudson, and that was the end of the very short list of people with whom he shared any personal information at all. He'd rather keep them at a distance; they could use their own imaginations. If they thought his parents were strange or psychopathic or overbearing toffs, so be it. It was better than them knowing the truth of what a terrible son he was.

 

Why was he telling her any of it? He supposed he just wanted to be known. Being a ghost for two years, a person that had ceased to exist to the world (with the exception of Mycroft, his parents, and her), had taken a toll he hadn't expected. He wanted very much to be alive again; he wanted someone, _her_ , to see him for the flesh and blood he truly was. He could trust her not to judge him, just as she didn't judge the dead that came across her slab. He didn't want her indifference, though, but her acceptance.

 

"I bet it's lovely in autumn, when the leaves turn," she said.

 

"Mm, it is. Mummy showed me pictures when they were here last week. I don't know why she feels the need to take pictures when she sees it every day, but she enjoys it anyway."

 

"Sometimes you just see something beautiful and you want to keep it, I suppose," she said.

 

_Yes_ , he thought, steadfastly not looking at her ring. Externally, he conceded her point with a tip of his head and a look.

 

Lunch was finished and their dishes put in the sink, Molly told him to make himself at home while she went for a shower and got the laundry started. He felt uncomfortably like a houseguest rather than just a friend hanging out (when, in truth, he was actually neither of those things, more like an interloper); he plopped down on her sofa and took up the book he'd been reading before he'd heard her key in the door.

 

He could leave while she was in the shower, return her shirt sometime at Bart's. Probably the best course of action, as things had been going well and he didn't want them to turn awkward; it was only a matter of time before they did. He had to do this, though, force himself to be around her to rebuild the callous on his heart that had smoothed and softened since... Well, since he'd met her, probably, though the process had certainly accelerated since he'd been away.

 

His thoughts left him unable to concentrate on the (somewhat topical and highly Eurocentric) history of food preservation throughout the ages. He put the book aside and browsed her shelf of DVDs for something else to do. She had quite the collection; she was a bit of a homebody, especially when the weather was cold.

 

He picked a title he was moderately curious about for how often he'd heard people talking about it just about everywhere he went. Pseudo-medieval fantasy wasn't really his genre (not that he had one, actually, though he enjoyed anything with high production values), but it might be worth a go. If he got bored, he could sleep through it. He'd become rather adept at falling asleep anywhere, anytime.

 

Was he presuming too much? Did she actually want to watch telly with him, or had that all been the lead-up to her joke? If he didn't wait for her to come back downstairs, maybe he wouldn't seem so... whatever he was. It would appear as though he was making himself at home, just as she'd said to do.

 

Yes, that would work. He put in the DVD and stretched out on the sofa with the remote, burrowing his feet under the blanket at the far end.

 

He lost track of time while he lazed in front of the telly, allowing himself to relax into the warmth and comfort and safety of Molly's space once again.

 

" _Game of Thrones_? Really?" Molly sounded surprised and slightly... something.

 

"I haven't seen it, but I've heard about it. We can watch something else."

 

She pushed his feet aside like it was an everyday thing, snatching the blanket before sitting. "No, it's fine. And it's got zombies in it. And a lot of sex. Not zombies having sex, though, thank God." She swung her feet up to rest next to his hips, their legs pressed together from calf to thigh.

 

To make matters even more uncomfortable, she flung the blanket over them and tucked part of her end under his feet. He felt compelled to do the same for her, his heart thundering in his ears for no good reason as he did so. It was hardly some lurid tableau, more like the kind of thing siblings or close (female) friends might do.

 

"Can't imagine that would be very pleasant to watch," he said, trying for dry and hoping his sudden nerves didn't come through.

 

"I'm sure it exists somewhere on the internet," she said, wiggling herself into a more comfortable position.

 

"Oh, what a time to be alive," he replied, forcing himself to look back at the screen and not at her.

 

She huffed a sound of amusement and turned toward the telly herself.

 

*

 

He came awake to movement next to him; Molly was shifting herself into a sitting position while trying not to disturb him. The flat was dark, lit only by the telly and the faint glow of the streetlights through her front windows. His legs were uncomfortably cool without Molly's warmth.

 

"What time is it?" he asked rather stupidly before remembering he had a watch. 5:09; he'd been asleep for almost five hours. He wasn't sure if he'd even made it to the second episode.

 

"I can't believe I fell asleep like that," she said, stretching. He caught himself before he outright ogled her breasts, quite obviously without the constraints of a bra under her sweatshirt. "Oh bollocks, I never took the laundry out of the washing machine."

 

"It's only been a few hours, it should be fine," he said automatically, his brain still coming online. She had, presumably, done laundry before in her life and knew that, making his statement unnecessary. "I'll just wear this one home. Unless you're afraid you'll never see your 'Girl Guides Women of Science Mentor 2013' shirt again, in which case, I suppose my jacket will provide adequate coverage in the dark of night to avoid an arrest for indecent exposure."

 

She laughed, which turned into a yawn, which set him off because he was still a primate, after all; then they both laughed at it. It was so achingly normal he wondered if he was still asleep and dreaming of a life he could have had, had things been different.

 

"Would you like to stay for supper? It might be dry by the time the meal's over."

 

_I'd like to stay forever_ , he thought, only half-joking inside his own head.

 

"Mm, no, I should check on Mrs. Hudson and see how she got on today with the reporters. Probably going to have to take her to dinner to make up for it. Thank you for offering," he said, standing and stretching. It was mostly the truth.

 

"Alright," she said, collecting their mugs from the coffee table. He remembered that she'd got up and returned with tea a few minutes after they'd started watching, coincidentally timed with the first sex scene. She hadn't left for the others, though, which were much more graphic.

 

He really needed to get out of there before he started thinking about the fact that they'd basically watched softcore porn (even if it was somewhat unsavoury subject matter) together while sharing a blanket. He was sure he'd be playing that scenario out quite differently inside his head, however inadvertently, some night soon.

 

He shoved his feet in his trainers and made for the door; Molly trailed after him.

 

"Sherlock," she said as he slipped on his pea coat. "If you ever need somewhere to go when it gets to be too much, if you just need the space... you can always come here. I don't have a bed in the spare room, so you can sleep on mine if you don't want to sleep on the sofa if I'm, um, not here one night."

 

"Alright," he agreed. Then, with genuine gratitude and warmth, "Thank you."

 

Her answering smile was soft and she looked so lovely that it broke his heart all over again. He knew, though, that now that he had permission he'd find his way there more than he probably should, more than would be good for either of them. And he was looking forward to it.

 


End file.
